“Cortez is speaking in an hour,” Sylvio says. “I wonder if the police know who’s responsible? Do you think it was Muñoz?”
I give up all pretense of minding my own business and bring my empty mug up to the counter. “Has Cortez had problems like this before?” I ask.
Sylvio narrows his gaze at me. “Who are you?”
Señora Marquez starts to introduce us, but I hold up my hand. “I’m sorry, but this is important. Has anyone vandalized his offices before?”
They start talking over one another, the words blending together until my head starts to spin. Cortez’s politics, Muñoz’s dirty campaign ads, the rumored corruption in the last two presidential elections, and some outrageous claims about Muñoz having an illegitimate son who used to work for the Ministry of Public Affairs—Panama’s equivalent of the CIA.
“I have to go. Thank you for the coffee, Señora Marquez.” Digging a five-dollar bill and one of my cards out of my wallet, I slide them across the counter, then lean in and lower my voice. “If you see anything suspicious, especially around my apartment building, you call me. Okay?”
She stares at me like I’m a total stranger but takes the card and tucks it into the pocket of her apron. “You do not pay tomorrow, Leo! I insist.”
* * *
Security at Domina’soffice is a fucking joke. I’m through the outer doors without anyone giving me a second look. Not even the police.
As soon as I get a good look at the place, I shake my head. There should be cops all over the place, but I’ve only seen three of them. Half the chairs are knocked over, laptops and computer monitors lie broken on the floor, and there are papers everywhere.
The vice president must not be here or the Institutional Protection Service—the organization directly responsible for guarding the President, the VP, and the legislature—would be all over me already.
I brace my hands on the chest-high reception desk and scan the open areas. Only a handful of National Police officers around, and a few members of the Presidential Guard Battalion—glorified building security—but no one pays much attention to the angry, desperate American calling Domina’s name.
She hasn’t texted me back, and though it only took me ten minutes to get here, it feels like it’s been hours.
When one of the police officersdoesfinally notice me leaning over the desk, he barks out an order. “Arrest him!”
Oh, shit. “No, no.” With two fingers, I snag the lapel of my jacket and hold it open. “I’m unarmed. I’m a private investigator, and my ID is in my pocket. I’m here to see Domina Sanchez.”
Two officers converge on me, grabbing my wrists and pinning them behind my back as they shove me against the reception desk. My license slides halfway across the polished wood.
“Domina! Call Domina. She’ll vouch for me,” I grit out as they tighten the cuffs around my wrists.
“Leo?” Domina rushes around a corner, shock in her warm brown eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“A little help?” I manage. The metal is tight enough to eventually cut off my circulation, and the officers wrench my arms closer together, promising to make my life hell once they get me to headquarters.
She keys in a code, and the thick, plexiglass doors between me and the rest of the office whisper open. Marching over to the cops, she glares at them. “Let him go. Leo is not a threat. He is a…friend.”
Is she saying that because they’re about to haul me off to jail? Or because she actually means it? And if she does, is a “friend” more than I deserve or a hell of a lot less than I want?
“You know this man?” one of the officers asks.
“Yes. He is not responsible for what happened here, and he will not harm anyone. I demand you release him.” When the officers don’t make a move to uncuff me, she turns and calls, “Manuel? I need you for a moment, please.”
Cortez? Heishere?
The man striding around the corner is every bit as imposing in person as he is on television. Sixty-two years old, a full head of snow-white hair, and a dour expression. He’s solid—at least two-hundred pounds—with a tailored suit that probably cost more than my rent for six months.
His detail tries to herd him back to safety when they see the commotion, but Domina assures them that I’m no threat, then meets the vice president by the plexiglass doors, which I’m guessing are bulletproof. Otherwise, the IPS officers wouldn’t let him anywhere near them.
“This is Leo,” she explains in quiet Spanish. “My neighbor. He came to my rescue when the man broke into my apartment three nights ago. He is not here to harm you—or anyone else. He is here to see me.” She pulls out her phone and shows him the screen.
The rest of the office staff whispers to one another, their gazes pinging between the vice president, Domina, and me. My right hand starts to spasm, the tremors racing all the way up to my shoulder. The motion angers the National Police goons, and they shove me harder against the reception desk. One of them grabs the back of my neck, forcing me to bend over so my cheek is pressed to the wood.
“Not helping,” I grunt as I try to relieve some of the pressure on my brachial nerve.
“Shut up,” the bigger officer snarls.
